


The Static of Your Arms

by edenbound



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Metaphysical Sex, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23944936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenbound/pseuds/edenbound
Summary: In the burning shop, Crowley said he couldn't find Aziraphale. What exactly did he mean?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 71





	The Static of Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Florence + The Machine's 'Strangeness and Charm', which is basically what was in my mind for the whole last bit of this fic.

"I can't find you," he'd said. A human watching him would have thought him crazy -- he was barely _looking_ , what did he expect to find? Aziraphale could have been almost anywhere, and there was really no reason to assume that he had been in the shop. But Crowley had been expecting retribution and had been expecting it to fall there, in the shop. Everything seemed to confirm it, and when he let his demonic powers spill free from his body, reaching out the dark tendrils of himself through the whole universe, reaching and reaching, he had found no answer.

He'd never quite dared to do it before, of course. Not really. Oh, he's let the edges of himself blur at times, in a way imperceptible to humans, reaching out out out -- and been rebuffed by the cold shining purity of Aziraphale's light. He's never done it and _not_ met that light, no matter how far away on the Earth's surface they were from one another. He did it during both World Wars, again and again, reassuring himself that Aziraphale (however resistant to his advances) was still there, still alive.

He should have figured that he wouldn't be able to reach Aziraphale in heaven, but really, Aziraphale has spent so little time there in all the time they've known one another. And the emptiness he met when he flung himself out over time and space, in that particular space that he and Aziraphale had always inhabited together -- that felt conclusive.

"My dear?" Aziraphale is watching him, now, over the rim of his wine glass. 

They came home from the Ritz together as if it was a matter of course, Aziraphale letting them into the bookshop the mortal way with a key and with his hands shaking just a little. He'd wandered the shelves a little, running his fingers over the spines of the books, breathing in the dusty scent, that trace of vanilla. (Lignin, Aziraphale had told him once, half-drunk and lecturing: they smell so good because they smell a little bit of vanilla. The lignin in the paper is closely related to vanillin, and as it breaks down... Crowley had smiled and nodded, acting careless, storing away less the information than the way Aziraphale _said_ it. Feasting on him, as always.)

"Sorry," Crowley says. "'s just... a lot to..." He waves his own wine glass.

"I was wondering," Aziraphale says. He takes a sip and then sets the glass down firmly. Here it comes, Crowley thinks. "You thought I was dead. I was wondering why..."

He shrugs one shoulder. "Just couldn't find you."

"Find me?"

The look on Aziraphale's face makes Crowley _itch_ with annoyance. "You know. When I did the thing. I know you don't like it, but I thought if I could find you that way, maybe we could -- "

"Crowley, I have no idea what you're talking about."

He really doesn't seem to. He's sat there, a pucker forming between his eyebrows, honestly bewildered.

Crowley sucks in a breath. "You know," he says. " _This_ \-- " and he _unfurls_ , pours himself out of his body into that other plane of existence in a rush, flinging himself headlong towards Aziraphale even though he knows he will slap against that tower of light and break like the tide, rebuffed.

And, "Oh," says Aziraphale, dimly, in some other plane, "I never -- that's you?" 

And before Crowley can make some smart answer, before he can pull back, before he has the chance for second thoughts, that pillar of light _opens_ , and instead of shattering against it, Crowley is taken inside it, swallowed up by the light. The first sensation is something like warmth, though there is no human word for it. It's warmth and silk against skin and the taste of cream on the tongue; it is the texture and scent of Aziraphale's soul, and it's all around Crowley now. There are no words and no need for them; Crowley wonders what he feels like to Aziraphale, shudders from the thought and is reassured immediately by the ripple of Aziraphale's light around him.

He opens himself, tentatively, as Aziraphale opened himself. Aziraphale is _greedy_ , somehow, rushing into him and drowning him in a wave of gold. There's a sensation like -- like pins and needles, but inside and somehow pleasant at the same time as it is unbearable.

And through all of it, there is a beating warmth, fierce and greedy and eager to consume him, and Crowley _knows_ it is Aziraphale's love, a specific and greedy and wholly unangelic love for him, just for him. Crowley tries to give it back, terrified and in awe all at once, and on Earth (if he only knew it) he is weeping, silently, tears streaking down his face. Aziraphale's soul wraps around his, enflaming and soothing and infuriating and magnificent, as Aziraphale has always been. 

It's unbearable. It's too much. They are not inimical to one another as he once (twice, thrice, _always_ ) feared, but it is _too much_ to feel Aziraphale so close like this. There is a building ache, a crescendo of sound and a taste like vanilla and cinnamon and well-aged whiskey and a thick layer of butter on warm fresh bread. There's all of Aziraphale before him, around him, inside him, and Crowley feels himself arching into it, away from it, into it again; he is out of his own control, anchored only to Aziraphale and Aziraphale only to him. They are one, they are everything, they are a universe unto themselves --

\-- they are the purest delight, the purest pleasure, the most wondrous --

\-- and they separate, fall apart, fall back into the mortal plane of existence.

"...I think we just had sex," Crowley says, after a moment. It's still thrumming through him, like he is a bell that has been struck and has yet to shudder all the way to stillness. It feels, as a matter of fact, like the most amazing orgasm he has ever had -- and he's had a few astounding ones where he could swear the Earth moved (always solo, always when he dared to think of Aziraphale). It also feels like he's come in his pants, which is less pleasant.

"I'm fairly sure we did," Aziraphale says, looking down at himself with some distaste. "Could you -- I, ah, there's a stain -- "

Crowley can, and does, but he's also grinning the entire time like the cat who got the cream. He's sure they'll end up talking about it, probably at length, but he knows exactly how Aziraphale feels for him. Right now, still ringing with the aftershocks, he can't help but feel very sure everything is going to be alright. It's not a feeling he's used to, but there it is.

Here they are, at last.


End file.
